The Search for Sarah Owen and Other Western Tales

By Emery Mehok

Senator Grant Kirby loses his reelection bid because he refuses to respond to scurrilous accusations made against both himself and his wife by his opponent , Peter Anderson. After his wife's death, Kirby takes pen in hand to set the record straight in an engaging, action packed story of lawmen, Indians, outlaws, love , strength, and survival during the American frontier period.
This is another exciting episode in the life of a man whose experiences extend from a riverboat gambling salon, to the rugged hill country of Texas, all the way to the halls of Congress. It is truly a "campfire" tale to savor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 31, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450249911

Emery Mehok

Emery Mehok is a retired teacher and member of the Western Writers of America with over forty short stories and articles published and two audio books produced since 1995. His first story collection " Johnny Bluehorse and Other Western Tales" was released in 2009. Emery, his wife, Helen, and their dog, Mani, live in Northwest Indiana where he works, writes , and enjoys riding horses.

Book preview

DEDICATION

This second collection of stories is, like the first, dedicated to my Mother and Father.

What I’ve become and what I’ve done is due in large part to them.

Neither lived to see any of my work in print, but I know they would’ve loved it.

PREFACE

As I wrote in the forward to Johnny Bluehorse and other Western Tales, this book too is a dream fulfilled for me.

This collection is also my view of the Old West as I would like it to have been.

This viewpoint was honed through years of reading Western Stories, and watching Western movies and television shows. It is rooted in a real love of history and an education in Social Studies.

If the stories seem somewhat cinematic, they are meant to be. I imagine them as movies in my mind. I really believe that some of them, especially the Grant Kirby tales, would transfer well to the screen.

I have had people comment to me that some of my stories are very short, and they have wondered why. There are a couple of simple answers:

1.) I felt I had written enough,

2.) I had more luck selling short, short stories.

I imagine they were easier for editors to fit in a publication. They didn’t have to worry about editing much because of limited space. I actually enjoy telling a satisfactory story in a modest number of words. It’s not something a lot of people can do very well.

Some of these short stories have similar themes. Keep in mind they were written as stand alone pieces at different times and published in different magazines. I wasn’t writing them as parts of a collection, but I think they work well as parts of this collection.

As always, some heartfelt thanks are due to some important people. My wife, Helen, has been supportive all along in all ways. My brother, Frank, has given me good ideas. The story titled Elijah and the Highlander was his brainchild. My pal, Dennis Nielsen, has been a great sounding board and even part time editor.

I have a group of lifelong friends who have always been in my corner. These include: Dan and Mary Ann Dwornik, Al and Cindy Marazas, Dennis and Jan Nielsen, Mike and Jo O’Neal, Tim and Barb Osmulski, Tom Pancheri, Jim and Mary Kay Sisson and Larry and Stephanie Sterling. Sincere thanks to them. Some of those friendships go back over fifty years, and I treasure them.

A final thank you to Doug Sharp who gave me and many others a chance to get published for a few years when he produced a labor of love titled Western Digest up in Calgary, Canada.

So, once again, it is my pleasure to furnish you with some more Campfire Tales, stories at home being told and listened to around a crackling fire by people cradling hot cups of coffee in their hands. I hope these tales will provide you with some moments of escape and relaxation.

HAPPY TRAILS

Emery Mehok

Table of Contents

PREFACE

The Search for Sarah Owen

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

EPILOGUE

Noah

Strange Medicine

The Gun

The Last Manhunt

Manolito

Rusty

The Hat

The Blue Devil

Wolf Mountain

Elijah and the Demise of Eldon Crow

Elijah and the Cardsharp Corpse

Elijah and the Murder at the Alamo

Elijah and the Satin Lady

Elijah and the Highlander

Sunset Lady

AUTHOR’S NOTE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

The Search for Sarah Owen

PROLOGUE

I know many people were disappointed in the last election. Hell, so was I. I lost. First time in four terms.

Friends of long standing have come to me and pleaded with me to answer my opponent, Peter Anderson’s accusations about my past. I put them off with rhetoric and evasive answers.

The truth is I loved my wife and family too much. I had actually become complacent about what happened those many years ago. I had become too confident in my power and position as a senator to believe that anything could harm me. I was wrong.

I have learned that one must never underestimate an opponent. An opponent is imbued with overwhelming ambition, but is sometimes not cautious. Anderson wanted my job and now he’s got it. He’ll learn that his exuberance won’t count for much in the halls of Congress. It’s the cranky, old bastards like me who get the job done. We know which arms to twist. We know when to give and when to take; when to grant favors and when to call them in.

But, I’m not crying. I’ve done a lot of good for this state, and I am approaching my 76th year. How much more time have I got? I don’t know. Enough, I hope to tell the story I must. Then, the complete record will be down for all to see, I am not ashamed.

My wife has passed on, God rest her soul. My children are mature enough and their lives well-established so that my story shouldn’t upset them to any great degree. In fact they’ve urged me to tell it.

I ask only these things of the reader: remember I am not an author, maintain an open mind, and, if I digress, or tend to philosophize, accept it as one of the idiosyncrasies of an old man.

Grant Kirby

1918 Santa Fe

CHAPTER I

I’ve lived in two centuries. Two different worlds, though, might be better terminology. But, for this story, I have to take you back to the first world: the frontier. I am not writing an autobiography, but I think a little background on my upbringing might be helpful.

My roots go back to Indiana and a farm a little outside the city of Terre Haute. The family consisted of four: my father, Frank; my mother, Elizabeth; my brother Joseph; and me. I was the oldest.

My childhood and youth were uneventful. Education and work were stressed. My father was great believer in both.

I was easygoing and got along with most people. I loved school and read whatever I could, whenever and wherever I could. I did manage to finish all eight grades.

But, the life on the farm as I grew older became a dull routine. So, like many other young men of the time, when the Civil War erupted, I was swept up in the pageantry and patriotism of the time. I joined the Union Army, hoping to get into action before it was all over. I got more than I bargained for.

When the time came for me to leave, my mother cried. My father walked with me down the road toward town. He was never a man of many words, but he talked a lot that time. He said some things I still remember today. His voice was sort of thick and raspy when he spoke.

Son, he said, you are walking down a road that will change your whole life. In a very short time you will long for the life you now think is so unexciting. War will change you, I am sorry to see you go, but I am proud of your decision. Now you must stick by it. Never go back on your word. When you get into a fight, finish it. God go with you, and may He bring you back to us.

We embraced then, tears filling both our eyes. I turned and walked away without looking back. At that point I didn’t want to leave any longer. I was afraid if I did look back, I might not be able to leave at all. I never saw my Mother or Father again.

My Father was right. War did change me. It changed everyone to some extent. I learned to hate, I learned to kill, I learned to survive.

My idea of the glory of war was dispelled quickly. There is no glory in shivering in the winter cold and sweating in the summer heat. There is no glory in dead and mutilated bodies or the screams of soldiers in pain. There is no glory in shooting a rifle at an unseen enemy, unseen because the gun smoke is so thick a man’s eyes burn and sting, and he can’t distinguish between friend or foe.

To this day I loathe even the sound of the word war. In my work in Congress I have tried to avoid sending American troops into battle anywhere. I have not always been successful. Right now United States soldiers are fighting in the European War. I hope it will be the last war I live to see.

When I returned home after the war, Mother and Father were no long there. Instead, I found two gravestones perched atop the little hill behind the house. Some sort of fever took them, I was told.

Joseph had married. He and his wife, Elizabeth, had a baby girl Mary, and they had settled into the family house.

I tried to stay, but it was no use. Even though Joseph and Elizabeth did their best to make me feel at home, I was never comfortable. Farming was not for me. I wanted to forget the war, I needed a fresh start. In this country at that time, the West was the answer.

I bid my brother and his family good-bye and headed for new land and new opportunities.

CHAPTER 2

Over the next few years I held a variety of jobs as I worked my way westward. I was a store clerk in Terre Haute, a bouncer in a bawdy house, a riverboat gambler and a peace office. I even tried my hand at cowboying, but oh, how I hated cattle.

I did learn to handle a horse pretty well. Guns were never a problem for me. I was always a decent shot, a sharpshooter in the war. For the time, I was pretty well-educated and had a pleasant personality. I was able to get along.

After some adventures in Texas with the Tenner family whom I love dearly, I finally settled, more or less, in Wichita, Kansas. My job was deputy marshal under Samuel Lane.

Even though he was getting older, Sam was still quite a man. He had been a lawman for many years, and his experience was priceless. I learned a lot from him and I’m thankful he chose to share his knowledge with me.

Sam helped me improve my skills with a handgun. He showed me how to perform the border shift and the road agent spin. He cautioned me about trying to be too fast on the draw.

Don’t hurry, he used to say, it’s not getting that hog leg out fast that counts. It’s hitting what you aim at that’s important.

A fellow lawman from Texas, Clay Ellis, had told me much the same thing and they were both correct. Those old Colts were notorious for inaccuracy. The man who was deliberate rather than anxious usually won in a fight.

The early 1870’s were wild times. Texas cattle herds were being driven up the trail from the southwest. Businesses catered to the drovers, supplying them with whiskey, women and gambling.

Our job was to protect the town and to try to keep everyone in line. It was during this period that the events took place for which Peter Anderson labeled me a murderer and my late wife a harlot.

Abraham Marx, president of the Homestead Band and Trust Company, was killed during a robbery when he reached for a pistol in his desk drawer. Witnesses identified the killer and leader of the bandits as a man called Cletus. He had no other name as far as we knew. He rode with a rather ragtag assortment of cutthroats and thieves. All of them were known men to steer clear of. Lyle and Charles Terk were a pair of retarded twin brothers. They were close to being imbeciles but were good shots. Cherokee Bill Mullins was a good tracker. Johnny Otis was a baby faced outlaw who fancied himself a lady’s man.

As we stared at each other across the desk in the Marshal’s office, Sam Lane’s face reflected worry and concern. He spoke slowly and carefully.

Grant, someone has got to go after them. It will have to be you. I can’t spare any other men. Besides, I think you can do it. I nodded indicating that I understood.

He continued, "They were seen heading northwest, but my guess is Lannon’s though. There’s nothing for them to the north. That’s just a decoy, I think. They want to try to throw us off the track. They probably figure no one from town will trail them very far anyway. You follow my hunch and ride for Lannon’s. You should be able to get there ahead of them.

What do I do then? I asked. One on five ain’t exactly good odds.

A hint of a smile glimmered on Lanes’ face as he answered, You’ll think of something.

Thanks, I said, but that’s no help.

Sam was quiet a moment then his eyes lit up.

"Didn’t Cletus use to come visit Squirrel Sally when she was here?

I think so, I answered.

Isn’t she working down at Lannon’s these days?

Now I knew what Sam meant.

Sally will do most anything for money won’t she? I asked.

Sam nodded affirmatively.

Marx’s son is offering a one thousand dollar reward isn’t he? I asked again.

Sam nodded once more.

We both laughed then because we knew there was a good chance Squirrel Sally would help us, especially since there was reward money to be had.

To some this may seem too easy to be true, but it is. In those days outlaws didn’t have much fear of the law outside of towns. In fact, there wasn’t much law outside of town law.

Lannon’s was a good guess too because it was one of the few places where men could rest and gather supplies in that country. Anyway, it was worth a try. Sam’s hunches usually were pretty accurate. After so many years in the marshalling business, it seemed almost as if he could read the mind of an outlaw.

As I’ve professed that what I’m writing here is the truth, I must include one more point. It was not only a sense of duty that behooved me to try to catch those outlaws. It was also that one thousand dollar reward.

That very day I saddled my dun horse, gathered provisions, weapons and cartridges and rode towards Lannon’s.

CHAPTER 3

Lannon’s was situated on the southwestern Kansas-Colorado border. It had originally been built as a trading post, but over a twenty year period it had been considerably altered. The post looked like a small fortress or stockade. The Plains Indians, who were engaged in a struggle against the ever increasing white men, never threatened Lannon’s. Perhaps it was too formidable for the light Indian cavalry. Perhaps they respected the owner who had never cheated them. Perhaps they preferred fighting on their own terrain. The real reason was not known.

Lannon’s catered to the plainsman, buffalo hunter, and an occasional wandering cowboy. A variety of foodstuffs, clothes, blankets, tack, hardware, and ammunition was stocked in the store building. In the adjacent two-story structure were housed a saloon and several sleeping rooms. It was here that Squirrel Sally and four other soiled doves plied their trade.

Squirrel Sally had been around a few years. At one time she had been quite beautiful. Now the years had begun to take their toll. She was still pretty, but now she had to resort to powder and rouge to provide what nature no longer did. She got her name from the pet squirrel she had. The little animal used to sit upon her shoulder and be fed by hand. One day, however, the fury little creature made the mistake of biting the hand of one of Sally’s customers.

He became enraged, took his pistol, and shot it. But Sally still carried the nickname.

I had done some hard riding. And, as Sam figured, I had arrived before Cletus or any of the others. If, in fact, this was their destination.

We sat at a corner table in Lannon’s saloon. The only other occupant of the room was Lannon himself. The short, fat, balding proprietor was taking an inventory of his whiskey.

I had explained the proposition to Squirrel Sally. She sat thinking. Her chestnut hair tumbled down over her shoulders to rest upon her pale yellow dress.

How much did you say is being offered? she asked.

There is a thousand dollar reward, I answered. We’ll split it; five-hundred for you, five-hundred for me.

She sat silent. I could tell she was worried.

Look, when are you ever going to get a chance like this again? I continued. I know its dirty money, but what is Cletus to you anyway? If it wasn’t you, it would be someone else. He has no friends nor does he deserve any.

She thought for a moment longer, and then spoke quietly.

You’re right Kirby. I’ll do it. I really would like to get out of here. But, you’ve got to fix it so no one will suspect. Otherwise, Johnny Otis and the others will kill me for sure.

Don’t worry Sally, I said, we’ll take him like I told you. No one will ever think ill of you. After Cletus is turned in, I’ll come and get you myself and take you to Wichita. The money will be there and so will the train. You can start fresh wherever you want.

Sally’s eyes were wet, and she wiped them with a lace kerchief. I could see them clear then, and I knew her mind was set.

Cletus will be here in one day, two at the most. The window will be left open. Just don’t make any mistakes, Marshal, she said.

She placed her hand on mine and squeezed she rubbed her knee against mine, smiled, and raised her eyebrows, Care for some relaxation? she queried.

I just answered, No thanks. I don’t really believe in mixing business and pleasure then or now.

CHAPTER 4

Cletus and his men arrived on schedule. They slumped in their saddles like fellows who had ridden hard for a very long time. They dismounted and straightened their bowed legs with noticeable effort.

I was not worried about being recognized. My badge was hidden and I was dressed in the normal fashion. I was an average sized man. My hair and beard were black. My hat, pants, shirt and vest weren’t unusual. Besides, in those days people weren’t’ nosy. No on asked questions as long as you minded your own business. It was dangerous to do otherwise.

That night the moon was half full, and the silvery stars dotted the black velvet night sky. I led my dun and a small bay I had procured, saddled and provisioned, to the back stairs of the hotel building. I tethered them there and looped my spurs over the saddle horn, a little trick Sam had taught me. The sound of jingling spurs doesn’t help when you want to go unnoticed. I quietly mounted the stairs that led to the second floor balcony.

The cold March air felt good in my lungs, and the wooden stairs didn’t creak or complain under my weight.

I reached the window, tested it, found it unlatched, and raised it slowly. I climbed through and stood a moment, allowing myself to get accustomed to the surroundings.

From the adjoining room a shaft of light peeked under the door, and sounds of heavy breathing and rustling bed sheets could be heard.

I moved to the door, opened it slowly, and looked in. Sally and Cletus were in bed oblivious to anything going on around them.

I paused a while, drew my Colt, and then slipped into the room. In three steps I reached the bed. In one movement I put the gun to Cletus’ head, thumbed back the hammer, and whispered, Don’t move or make a sound.

Sally opened her eyes, gasped, and looked about to scream.

One word out of you miss and I’ll kill you both, I threatened. Keep your mouth shut and you won’t be hurt.

Cletus looked pretty miserable. He was short, skinny, and naked. A scraggily brown beard covered his pock marked face.

What is this anyway? What do you want? Cletus cautiously asked when I backed away.

I’m a deputy U.S. Marshal, I answered. "You’re under arrest for the murder of Abraham Marx and the robbery of the